Schimmenspel
by immer wenn es dunkel wird
Summary: /Tomato-centric/ II. Bones : He is not a child, but he is not... Not a child. He just doesn't grow. horror; Romano-introspective
1. RomaBel x Rhinestones

Rhinestones

/There is a discomforting lack of RomaBel_ en noir_/

~About the anthology; this will be a deposit for all my {Tomato-centric} drabbles. They will all contain either one or several of the following characters; Southern Italy, Belgium and Spain. General themes will be stained gray or black- angst, horror, _politics, history _etc.

Note(s): This; is (pretentiously) historical; contains my interpretation of a slightly damaged and more mature Southern Italy; tries to give a solid foundation for the pairing of dark!Southern Italy x dark!Belgium.

Warning(s): Mentions of subtle seduction, psychological manipulation, deals with the economical and socio-political aftermath of WWII.

Inspired by: Romanzo Criminale II, La Sentenza; Tears for Fears – Shout

_I hereby disclaim any rights._

* * *

><p>She reminds him of <em>Rita Hayworth<em>; this, he decides in the quarter of a second it takes her to transverse the distance between the gaping doorway and the faux-leather French provincial fauteuil. The hem of her beige trench coat brushes against her ghastly thin calves, causing his cognitive capabilities to falter, to hitch and knot through another; vision blending into perception of scent and noise. Her cheeks, he remembers to be bulb and florid, are now hollow, white like crumpled lily-petals but her mouth, covered in cardinal red, is still languorous and taut. Translucent smoke, reminiscent of rainy-Monday skies, flees from between his slightly-parted lips as he ducks his head to place number 13 of this day upon the glass ashtray, which serves as a dreary centerpiece of the ebony table-basse with its bouquet of cigarette buds.

His dorsum scuffs against his palate, holding down an inquiry, a crossfire of questions all starting with the letter 'w' and each one could've been phrased more eloquently, more politely but instead the silence drifted between them, much like the gray haze bursting from the orange light of the cigarette. She crosses one frangible leg over the other, her black pump dangling from her toes, and retrieves a package from her breast pocket. Her holding a gasper between her index and middle finger was the last distorted sight burning upon his retina before he closes his with-green-specked cinnamon eyes.

"Lovino," her soprano was dulcet, pleasant like a silver bell jingling before dinner, "I…" Something sizzles, she was lighting a match, "I want to discuss something important with you."

When he decides to grace the blonde with his right eye, the sight of swirly wisps of smoke rake over the bottom row of her teeth. Lovino merely states, "Feliciano occupies himself with the affairs of state…" He leans forwards, smooth and flexible aside from his left forearm, wrapped in a broken white Esmarch bandage, and adds before putting the filter into his mouth, "Unless you're here for pleasantries."

She chortles, low and amused as if his statement had been an inclination for more; as if she could delve past the construction of syllables down to the core, "Perhaps," Her lips flex and curl into her trademark feline smile, "the concept of utter professionalism is lost on me. I do, however, have a proposal…"

Her hand darts out in something, he could only assume, to be a comforting gesture, as the alabaster fingertips strum upon his upper arm. "For all of Italy." She decides to add in good measure. He exhales, sagging his posture and holding the cigarette just above the table, his legs are slightly tense, he notices.

"I'm going to get something to drink." Lovino shakes the appendage off, "Would you like something as well? Don't have much… Coffee, water, some of that cola stuff from the shithead American." He expectantly glances down at her, as he stands, ignoring the tremor in his right leg. _–fucking nerves.._

She nods, the cigarette back between those sinful crimson lips, the hand he had shaken off out of paranoia, calmly in her lap, and when she treats him an answer, the Italian couldn't help the tiniest of smirks tugging on the corner of his mouth, "Espresso, 'cause you know how I like 'em strong." She seasons the response with a charming laugh.

"Coming right up…" He strolls over to kitchen of his latest apartment in the center of Rome, separated from the living room, where he mostly spent his days forgetting and watching movies from own soil as well as across the Atlantic, and concentrates on the machine.

Lovino suddenly muses over his shoulder, "Economical? Or industrial? Not that I'm curious or anything… Just wondering." His curl bounces as he moves around to gather the cups, the sugar and a platter, not quite gracefully with only one arm available.

"Bit of both, I suppose…" He hears her rustle in the fauteuil, and couldn't help but still the conflicting emotions. _**She**_ is present, separated only by a wall, with an outdated 20's rose-specked wallpaper, and completely devoid of hostilities concerning the… The hot-tempered Italian sighs as the machine starts to pour the creamy brown liquid down the complementary ceramic cups.

_/But she wants something/ _His mind bites back viciously.

With a silver platter balancing on the flat palm of his usable hand, he reenters the room only to catch her staring at the antique gramophone in the far right corner, an odd souvenir from before the…, and she halts the locomotive of thoughts crossing the railroads in his brain with an innocent smile, amiable peridots blinking in her eye sockets and another inhale of nicotine.

"Does it still work?" Her cigarette's filter was painted a fainted shade of red and slightly moist, she chews apparently, and he jerks his head back to the phonograph.

He bends slightly to put their drinks upon the ebony ornament and holds his chin pensively, before shrugging in a non-committed manner, "No fucking… Uh, sorry… No clue, really. Just stood here even before Feliciano and I came around." She nods in understanding, and seats herself in a more ladylike manner, her patella's close to another and prepares to grab one of the cups.

When she leans forwards, honey blonde curls frame her heart-shaped cheeks and Lovino can't contain his wandering gaze, from her distinguished collarbones down to the sickly pale flesh seemingly stitched over the ivory bars of her ribcage, maggot-white with dim lackluster blue. "A pity." His glance abruptly shifts back to her round eyes, which were fixated on the contents of her cup. "I would've liked to hear _au claire de la lune.._" She sips cautiously and in anticipation, the chestnut-haired male shoves the container of sugar into her direction. She swallows.

"Au claire de la lune, mon ami Pierrot… Prêtes-moi ta plume.." The blonde woman trips over the lyrics, her tongue clacking in disdain, "Ma chandelle est morte?" In the shake of her head, her frumpish ringlets twirl and dance as she giggles girlishly.

He finishes the restants of his gasper, a smoldering morsel of ash brightens the glass ashtray, and stirs copious amounts of sugar into his own brew. "So, uhm, about your proposition… You wanted to include me into the negotiations?"

With a light thud, the bottom of her cup collides with the lacquered surface of the saloon table, "Ouvre-moi ta porte, pour_ l'amour_ de Dieu… Mmh?" Lovino finds himself staring straight into iridescent eyes and blinks slowly, before repeating his question with a slight pink gloss.

"Oh, yes…" She smiles in apology, "You might be aware that most mining facilities were destroyed due to the war." Her tone doesn't waver when she speaks the last word, but she does dip her head lowly and her hands rest listlessly in her lap, fingers entangle together to form a flesh-made bowl. "Except for those on my territory. Van Acker decided to reform and modernize them." He notices how the digits turn post-mortem rigid, "I'm going to be honest with you here… We don't find enough operatives to perform labor and we can't keep interlarding more collaborators."

Silently, he gulps down a gush of coffee, coated with saccharine, and the blonde takes the invitation to continue, "I promised Ludwig," the Italian nearly chokes, "I'd release his prisoners in November, next year.. And I am aware of your high rate of unemployment…" In light tremor, he puts down the cup, sighs in aggravation and scrutinizes his companion with narrow olive eyes.

"You want people. My and Feliciano's people to be exact. People to descend in your mines and make you prosper." She shifts lightly and arches her back. Before Lovino realizes the sudden action, her fingers were already tapping his left shoulder softly, gently, in tune with her previous wish of hearing _'au claire de la lune'._

She was close, "I am hardly unreasonable, Lovino." –hot breaths, reeking of tobacco cascade down his flustered cheekbones, too close, "This is a negotiation and it takes two to negotiate." Her crimson-splattered lips curl back into a pleasant, irresistible smile. "So I'm listening."

In an attempt to create more distance, he leans forwards, his available hand reaches for his package of cigarettes but he stops mid-action when talons, belonging to her pale fingers, drag three parallel lines down the fabric of his button-up. "I'd require a rough fifty-thousand." He clutches his source of relief and retreats.

"And what do you have to offer in return?" He flips open the lid, retrieves number 14 (or was it 15? Her presence was overbearing…) and searches the pockets of his trousers for a box of matches.

His company swiftly strikes a match and lights his cigarette for him, grinning with teeth bare, and after putting her own matches back into her beige trench coat, "Coal, of course. I was thinking about…" Her apex darts out, flicking over her canines, "One hundred fifty kilograms, per day, per laborer with a contract of twelve months or more… Granted, they will have living accommodations prepared upon their arrival on my territory. Good, enough?"

Lovino manages to ignore the soft prodding tips of her digits, giving the proposal serious consideration and briefly pondering if alterations were necessary. The French rococo clock, a preposterous gift from self-proclaimed 'older brother' Francis Feliciano could never properly part from, keeps ticking in and he finds himself staring at the mechanics through a gray haze; observing the swirls and frills, the golden cherub sitting atop the trinket, the obnoxious shade of mauve… Finally, the Italian shakes his head lightly and decides to add a few extra demands.

Tails of smoke flutter as he speaks, "Two hundred kilograms a day." She doesn't frown and urges him to continue, "Plus, money for the families the immigrants leave behind." The distracting tongue moistens the corner of her mouth. The Italian inhales again and the burning sensation down his throat eases the budding blossoms of distress at her lack of response.

"Sounds fair. I'll be sure to report your opinion regarding the matter to Spaak. He might want to sway your resolution, but if you stand firm, he'll most likely comply." He sighs in slight relief, not entirely certain whether the emotion is an outcome from her positive behavior or the fact his demands might pass.

She plucks his cigarette from between his lips and takes the liberty to take a quick puff, but he is far too occupied by balling his right hand into a shivering fist, steadfast on ignoring the limb, from the infuriating Belgian, on his thigh. Her eyes are half-closed, a wave of mascara-coated lashes drumming upon skin and she simply _leers_ at him.

"I'd love to stay and chit-chat, Lovino." The blonde puts the gasper back between his slightly-parted lips, "But," the hand hasn't moved yet, resting comfortably on his thigh, "I'm feeling under the scorching weather… Would you be so kind to escort me to the front door?" –_clutch_, the hand tugs on the fabric of his trousers.

Quizzical would be an excellent definition of her current smile, he thinks absentmindedly while standing up, looking down upon her fragile frame, and leans forwards to put number 14 in the crowded ashtray. With linked arms, they make their way through the gaping doorway, leading to the minuscule entryway with the apricot wallpaper, a waft of oregano drifts from the discarded carton-brown shopping bags. Lovino finds the task of opening his door suddenly difficult, fumbling with the copper key and forgetting to twist a complete circle and a half. He also finds himself wondering how many times the blonde has reached out and touched him in the span of an hour and a half she has kept him company.

"You know," Somehow she scares him with feather-light caresses, "I think our co-operation will prove an excellent opportunity for Italy's international image to heal." Alabaster digits float inches above his Esmarch bandage.

Lovino reveals the sight of the apartment building's hallway, "I don't particularly care about such matters." And he can already _hear_ her think that his younger brother and De Gasperi, for a fact, do. "When is the actual meeting between our prime ministers?"

Golden curls brush against the tip of his nose when she abruptly turns her head to stare at the elegant hatstand in the far corner. They are so _close_ and she says a date he'll most likely forget in the next few seconds because her knuckles are sliding down his jaw line and she is back staring at him with her sphinx-like smile –or is it a glimmer of a smile?-. He exhales, with a shiver sliding down his spine, and carefully splays her palm over his windpipe, with his hand over the back of hers, in a manner akin to throttling. Her mouth nears the tip of his nose. It feels like she sucks the air straight from his lungs.

"Don't forget," She kisses his nose tenderly, "To inform Feliciano of our arrangement, he needed a bit more persuasion after I left his office."

And she knocks the oxygen straight back inside.

* * *

><p>I tried to make this as attractive as possible. I'd love to hear your opinions :D<p>

(Note; All names mentioned in this drabble are ministers; Van Acker was prime minister of Belgium; Spaak was the minister of foreign affairs of Belgium and De Gaspari was prime minister and minister of foreign affairs of Italy. Just for clarification and to avoid misconceptions ;3)


	2. RomanoCentric x Bones

_Bones_

/For #100-Heta-Challenge deviantart/

Theme: .71; Obsession

Note(s): -This is inspired by a particular scene in '_Interview with the Vampire'_; -Spur of the moment thing, therefore rather drabble-ish; -Contains a rather disturbing interpretation of a young Romano; -eh.. Yeah, it's shorter than my usual works.

Warning(s): Morbid childish jealousy and dead people; blood, primitive dissection, immortality, …

_I hereby disclaim any rights_

**X**

He doesn't _grow_.

Lovino scrutinizes the size of his phalanges and finds them infuriatingly short and stubby; a bit pudgy even, and perhaps their inconvenient length causes his usual clumsiness. His company shoots him a quizzical glance, with her underarms deep inside the full wooden cask, and eventually shrugs to hand him a wet goblet. Scoffing, the not-child continues his task and dries the golden cup with the torn moist rag. She smiles sweetly at him; and he feels his cheeks fluster, as if the skin is alight with flames, and hands him a plate, specked with tidbits of supper. Somehow, the utensil slips from between his fingers and drops with a loud clang upon the stone tiles of the kitchen floor. He scowls, and in a flurry of the hem of his clover-green dress and the thud-thud-thuds of the wooden soles of his tiny shoes, the not-child flees with an expression of anger and shame.

**X**

_Ulna, Radius, Metacarpals and Phalanges_

Sometimes the not-child retreats to the confinement of the abandoned stables with a blunt scalpel, he had managed to snatch during a moment of unawareness by the royal doctor, and just examines. He represses the urge to shudder at the repugnant odor, practically floating around the rotting carcass he had hidden underneath the hay, and ignores the itsy-bitsy maggots scurrying through the chasm, which was once the man's ribcage. Lovino prods the calloused texture of the skin tightly woven around the thick fingers. His blade draws a line, and he carefully shoves the flesh open to allow sight of the ivory bones. They were long, like twigs, unlike his. Incision after cut, the not-child unravels the skin and tissue, peels away the muscle and the veins, and eventually in triumph, he holds the skeletal arm in his clenched fists. In amazement, his olive irises narrow and he immediately starts comparing the remnant of the man to his still-functioning arm.

He frowns. _/I want to grow!/_

**X**

_He doesn't _grow!

Antonio often teases him about his childlike state; cooing with a bittersweet voice about how particularly adorable he looks in the monstrosity of the dress, holding him confidently in a patronizing embrace, lifting his kicking legs far too high above the safe and sound soil.

"Say, Lovi~" Not exactly jumping up and down with enthusiasm to regard his caretaker, the Italian leans back against the tree and relaxes in the cooling shade, "I have an inquiry for you…"

He opens one eye reluctantly, the Spaniard suddenly strikes him as distressed, with a quivering bottom lip straining a familiar smile. "What is it?" And he adds in a habit, "Bastard."

"Ah, well… One of the maids made a rather shocking discovery in the stables." His form turns rigid for a split-second and he holds his tongue, trying to swallow back any insults. "She found a carcass already past the first stages of death. However, the most…" Antonio pauses, "_interesting_ feature of said carcass, was the fact he's been dismembered."

He struggles to contain his composure, but the intolerable heat renders him dizzy and again, he finds himself against the comforting stem of the tree. His caretaker mistakes his guilt for general discomfort of the insensitive topic and envelops the not-child in a bone-crushing hug. "Oh, I'm so terribly sorry. Of course, my little Lovino wouldn't know anything about such horrendous matters!"

Great, now he had to make an unnecessary visit to the graveyard to find new comparing material.

**X**

_I want to grow! I want to grow!_

Often, he finds himself complaining. "Why is the bastard so tall? He isn't all that better than me, y'know… And my legs are so damned short. How does he expect me to collect vegetables from the market when I can barely run?"

She giggles, knuckles bashfully brush against a plump mouth, "Oh, _Lovino_, you're still young." This statement draws a vindictive glare from the Italian boy.

When the maid bends low to peck the tousled chestnut locks upon the not-child's head, he raises an eyebrow in wonder and finds himself asking, "How come you're so tall? You're a girl, after all… Aren't men supposed to be larger?" Sun-kissed fingertips tap whimsically against Lovino's cheeks, as if she were contemplating the unexpected conclusion.

"You'll catch up, little Lovino."

She never quite saw the girandole coming, but then again, the poor servant girl didn't have eyes on her back.

**X**

_Ulna, Radius, Metacarpals and Phalanges_

They were more elegant than those of the last one, he muses as the tip of the blade delves through the layer of flesh and leads way for spidertine-slender bones. It was hardly fair this sixteen-old servant had possessed a height far more impressive than his tiny form. He was far older; experienced far more life-threatening situations than this mortal girl and still she was taller!- He could howl in frustration at the utter unfairness of his current predicament.

Absentmindedly, he picks at the bones, idly fingering them like an expensive trinket and silently marvels at the length.

**X**

"When will I grow?"

The caretaker was far too accustomed to these perils to actually be worried at the increasing pinch of the not-child's voice. "Lovino… Why would you ever want to grow? You are blessed with an adorable appearance," and the Spaniard takes in his scowling expression with a delighted smile, "and eternal youth." He takes in every flex of muscle, every gentle movement of the wrist and the not-child can't help but wonder how long those immortal bones could be.

"I… Uhm… Bastard! I'm tired of being _this… _This disgusting pathetic form while I've been around since my bastard grandfather Rome! I should be…" He wavers, choking on the bundle of rage stuck in his throat, "I should be an adult by now!"

Lovino spins on his heel and leaves a confused Antonio alone on the patio.

**X**

_Grow, grow, grow_

He finds himself embracing the girl's carcass, his chin idly grazing the blood-splattered lackluster bones of her ribcage, his fingers caressing the hole between the ulna and radius, which had been emptied and cleaned by the rag he uses to dry the dishes, and he simply exhales. Relishes the silence. His heels knit into the backside of her patella's.

"I'll catch up, right?"

**X**

whatisthisidon'tevenknow?


End file.
